


Our Roles Reversed

by Eldalire



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fingon - Freeform, M/M, Maedhros - Freeform, Maitimo - Freeform, Mentions of Blood, Minor Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, close friends, finno, mentions of amputation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 11:25:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11554200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eldalire/pseuds/Eldalire
Summary: After Maedhros' rescue, he Fingon reminisce about their childhood, and how Fingon has gone from idolizing his cousin to becoming his caretaker while he heals.Not so much a relationship as close friends





	Our Roles Reversed

            “Fingon, if you have ever loved me, you will kill me. You will bring me swiftly to the Halls of Waiting. Please, Findekáno,” Maedhros begged as best he could, his body frail and too exhausted even to speak properly. His jaw seemed made of lead, and hung heavily from his once beautiful face—a face Fingon knew. A face he would miss.

            “I will not let you die here,” he replied from the back of Thorondor, the mightiest of Eagles, removing the belt holding his sword’s sheath. He tightened the worn leather about Maedhros’ right wrist, his hand the only thing barring him from freedom, from life.

            “Finno, please,” Maedhros mumbled, near delirious, the thick, coppery hair Fingon so fondly remembered now thin and stringy, caked with blood and years’ worth of filth. “Death is all that can save me,”

            “hush now,” Fingon said as soothingly as he could, running a gentle hand over his half-cousin’s hollowed cheek, marred by open, weeping sores and scars now many years old. Maedhros seemed not to notice the contact, or made no reaction. He seemed to drift out of consciousness, and Fingon took the opportunity to tighten his belt around Maedhros’ wrist, tears coming to his clear blue eyes as he contemplated what he was about to do. Maedhros, Well-Formed, Beautiful, his very name about to mock him for eternity. But he would be alive. Fingon pulled the leather belt as tight as he could, cutting off what little circulation still reaching Maedhros’ right hand. Once he was satisfied he had created as good a tourniquet as he could, he took a deep, rattling breath, pulled back his sword, and severed Maedhros’ hand.

            He cried out in agony, writhing as Fingon caught his limp body, back arching, his ribs and hip crests protruding from his starving figure. Fingon held him as he cried, shrill screams muffled in his half-cousin’s shoulder as he held his head there, doing his best to offer what comfort he could, carding his hand through auburn waves the way Maedhros had for him when he was small. He watched in nauseating horror as Maedhros’ hand fell away into the void, the lonely shackle all that remained hanging from the cliff face.

            Maedhros’ cries soon fell silent, exhaustion or blood loss getting the better of his consciousness, and he once again fell limp in Fingon’s arms.

            “I am sorry, Maitimo,” he whispered, more to himself than to his cousin, though his face was buried in his auburn hair as he kissed the crown of his head, his eyes closed, his mouth hanging slack. “I am so sorry,” he pulled away, resting Maedhros’ head on the Eagle’s neck, just between his wings, hoping to provide a more restful position. It was then that he became aware of the extent of Maedhros’ hurts.

            His face, once smooth and creamy with a peppering of joyous freckles, was now raw and peeling from days and weeks and years in the scalding sun and the fires of Morgoth. His cheek was raw and bleeding from a series of deep gashes, obviously left by the claws of some sort of fell creature. His lip was spilt, and scratches and scars created deep gullies down his entire face in spiderwebbing trails. Blood was crusted here and there, like lichens growing on a tree. It seemed none of his body had been spared, his bare chest also scratched, burnt, scarred. Fingon was suddenly struck with guilt as he wrapped Maedhros’ stump of a wrist. His life, though saved, would be filled with hardship. Perhaps he would have been better off if Fingon’s arrow had found it’s mark, if he had dealt his dearest companion a merciful death. That was what he wanted, after all, for his soul to journey to the Halls of Mandos, to be at peace. But Fingon could not bring himself to do it. He had the chance to end Meadhros’ suffering not once, but twice, and he could not. He would rather Maedhros live his life a cripple, a miserable shadow of the valiant warrior he had once been, than live without him. It was a selfish thing to do. He brushed his tears from his face, the wind sending them away through the soot-filled air. He was glad indeed when the Noldorin camp came into view far below.

 --o0o--

Maedhros spent the next weeks drifting in and out of a restless slumber, the healers doing what they could to repair his extensive injuries, but very few could be entirely mended. Fingon stayed by his side every moment, holding his hand, cleaning his body and face, plaiting his copper-colored hair to keep it out of the way and free from the weeping of his gashed cheek and split lip.

            When Maedhros finally woke fully, Fingon was there, holding his hand, offering him a grin as his mossy-colored eyes fluttered open under pale eyelashes.

            “Finno,” he smiled, lifting his right arm as if to hold Fingon’s cheek in his hand. His smile faded into something between terror and grief when he looked upon his empty wrist. “What has happened to me?” tears sparkled in his eyes.

            “It had to be done, Maitimo. There was no other way to save you—”

            “I should not have been saved, then,” he replied shortly, true pain further marring his already disfigured face.

            “Do not say that, Maitimo—”

            “I have lost all I had to live for. I cannot fight. I cannot write, I cannot hold a sword! What is left for me? Nothing! I would rather be dead than useless!”

            “You are not useless,” Fingon insisted, taking what was left of Maedhros’ wrist in his hands, running his thumbs gently over the linen bandages. “You will be just as skilled with your left hand, in time, I know you will. I know you will.”

            “Finno—”

            “I will help you,”

            “I cannot ask that of you,”

            “You taught me to hold a sword, do you remember?” he replied lightly with a smile, recalling fondly the days of his youth, when Maedhros was nothing short of an idol, and Fingon was little more than a child, his voice frothy and light, his limbs thin as been poles. He nodded after a long moment, gazing up at Fingon from where he lay on the pillow, his bare, broken body covered in a thin blanket. “You taught me so many things,” he leaned over Meadhros, sitting on the stool beside the bed, giving his long, pointed nose a joking tap. Meadhros felt his cheeks flush pink.

            “Finno!” he laughed lightly, and Fingon was overjoyed. He hadn’t heard that laugh, that lovely, beautiful laugh, in so many years. How he had missed him. 

Maedhros was brought back to their youth, when they were both hardly more than adolescents, and the horrors of the world had not yet reached them; when they were simply two children, Finno and Maitimo, always together, Fingon following his cousin like a shadow. How things had changed. How he had changed. His Finno, though perhaps taller and certainly stronger, was the same in face and temperament, his skin pale and clear, his cheeks strong, his eyes sharp and full as a night sky. Even his hair, jet black and shiny, was just the same, two thin plaits at his temples woven with golden ribbons, resting over his broad shoulders, glinting against royal blue robes trimmed in gold thread. But not he. He was broken, his once flawless face, graced with a strong jaw and large, luminous green eyes, was a mess of odd angles and crooked pieces that did not belong. His nose, long and thin, was bent, a large bump present at the bridge. Delicate bone structure was shattered, his right clavicle was bent and would probably never straighten. Scars covered his chest, like a map of intersecting paths, all jagged and dangerous, too frightening to follow. Even his name, Meadhros, Fair-Faced, Well-Formed, Beautiful, simply spat at his current condition…his new normal.

“I am sorry, Finno,” he said at length, running his fingers down one of the delicate braids that rested at Fingon’s shoulder.

“What for, _mellon nín_?” he took Maedhros’ hand in his own and held it gently to his chest, so he could feel his heartbeat.

“Things were so different before…I was so different,”

“You are still my Maitimo,”

“Maitimo was beautiful,”

“You are beautiful,”

“I am not!” he nearly shouted. “How could you ever love a disfigured cripple the way you loved Maitimo? You cannot,”

“Do you think me so shallow as to abandon my longest friend simply because he looks differently? No, Maitimo, I would look up to you even if you looked like a Goblin, or a Troll, or a Balrog!” he joked, and Meadhros smiled sadly and looked away, but Fingon raked auburn hair from his forehead gently, and the sorrow vanished from his face.

“I am cold, Finno,” Maedhros said, breaking the silence of the small, bright tent. “won’t you lay beside me?” Fingon nodded, and laid beside him, above the thin blankets, concern crossing his face. There was no chill in the air, and things were still. Maedhros should not have been cold.  

Fingon removed his silken cloak, leaving him in only his underthings, draping it over Maitimo’s shivering frame. He found it strange, taking care of Maedhros in such a way, keeping him warm, making sure he was safe in his slumber, for he had done the same for Finno when he was small. Maedhros often sat in Fingon’s bedroom all night, just to be sure no dragons or closet-orcs entered his dreams. Though they appeared much the same age now, Maedhros was more than a century Fingon’s elder, and when they were both very young, the difference was more obvious. They were the best of friends, then, and soon became something more than that, something closer, sharing smiles behind the rose bushes, eavesdropping, passing silly notes under the table at family dinners, clanking swords as they rode on horseback, daringly close to their fathers, who rode just steps ahead. It didn’t seem strange to them, even now it was not strange, that they were so close. There was something about Fingon that put Maedhros, nervous, careful Maedhros, at ease. And Fingon, so bright and loving, helped Maitimo overcome his childhood shyness.  
           How he wished to return to those times. Times when his Maitimo was happy, when he was whole.

“Are you warmer now, Maitimo?” Fingon asked after a long moment. Maedhros made no reply, only continued to run his fingers over his empty wrist, his eyes sad, but somehow curious as well, studying the wound, pressing here and there, watching as the cloth bandage collected the blood that still found its way through.

“Careful,” Fingon warned, standing and walking around the bed to face Maedhros, taking his hand. “it is still healing. You will hurt yourself,”

“It hurts anyhow,” Maedhros sighed, “but at least the pain means I’m alive,”

“and I am so glad that you are!” Fingon replied with a smile, nuzzling his nose against Maitimo’s.

“I am glad that you found me. That you brought me back here. I said I was not…but I am happy to be alive, so long as you and I are still together,”

“I will not leave you, if I can help it,” Fingon smiled.

“Good,” he rolled onto his back, and did his best to sit up, but Fingon forbid it, at first.

“Lay down, Maitimo, you are not well enough—”

“It has been nearly a month, Finno, I am tired of laying down,” he smiled, “won’t you help me?” Fingon rolled his eyes. He could never say no to his big cousin when he was small, and it seemed nothing had changed. He propped two more pillows behind his back, so that he might sit more easily.

“Hand me my glass?” Maedhros asked with a meek smile, looking to the glass of water on the side table. Fingon handed it to him, struck with just a pang of sadness when Maitimo reached with his right arm first, how he would have before. After taking a sip, he handed the glass back and reached down to pull up the blankets again, still cold. Fingon helped him, as he struggled with only one hand.

“Thank you, Fingon,” he smiled. “I don’t know what I would do without you,”

“probably continue to act as Morgoth’s mobile,” he joked. Maedhros laughed.

“Just for that, I am going to ask another favor!” he grinned. “Would you properly brush my hair? And put it in plaits like yours?” he reached out and took one of the braids that hung over Fingon’s shoulder, holding the rest of his long, dark hair out of his face. Fingon chuckled.

“Yes of course I will,” he positioned himself behind Maedhros, so that he was leaning on him instead of the pile of pillows. “Can you sit up on your own?” he asked.

“Yes, I think so,” Maedhros said, using his hand and his empty wrist to prop himself up, far enough away so that Fingon could comb his hair. The soft bristles of the brush that resided on the bedside table were welcome on Maedhros’ scalp, which had mostly healed from its burns and scratches.

“How I wish I had your curls,” Fingon mused as he combed, the brush stretching the waves and coils, which sprung back into place when the brush was removed.

“They are wild, like a living creature. I hated them when I was young because it took an eternity to properly brush it and plait it, but now I would not mind the wait,” he smiled.

“I will braid it perfectly, I promise!” Fingon cooed. Maedhros laughed.

“You had the world’s best teacher!” he joked, for he had taught Finno to braid hair when he was small. Maitimo had been very stilled at turning brushed hair into a braided masterpiece, and Fingon’s was always the most complicated. He was the only one who would sit still long enough for Maedhros’ careful hands.

“I will never be as good as you,”

“Well, you are now. I cannot do it anymore. Braiding is one of many two-handed activities I can no longer take part in,” he said sadly.

“You are clever, Maitimo, cleverer than I. You will find a way, I think,”

“Well for now, I’ll have to have you do it for me. It seems our roles have been reversed! When you were small, I braided your hair. Now you will have to braid mine,”

“My debt is finally paid!” he smiled, draping his arms over Maedhros shoulders carefully, giving him a sort of awkward backwards hug.

“How I missed you, Finno,”

“And I you, my friend,” he replied.


End file.
